


Unlovable.

by PetitOrage



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Human, Emetophobia, Love/Hate, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Warning for, also very very slight France/Spain, francis just gets really really miserable and arthur is kind of a cock, gross stuff, it's a very short piece of work, like they just kiss once, mentions of cheating, my first fic ever on here and it's a sad one! oh my!, nothing too graphic i just put this warning to be safe, relationship analysis, sex mention, though it's a bit ambiguous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:38:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3469607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetitOrage/pseuds/PetitOrage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loneliness can make you love anybody. </p>
<p>A study about Francis and Arthur's relationship - and about how hate can't ever breed love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unlovable.

The first time it happens, neither of them had planned it, and it goes mostly untold.

An accident, Arthur says. It won't ever happen again.

Francis nods. He understands, of course he does. He hadn't wanted for it to happen, either. But those five glasses of gin had taken the decision for them, and, now, here they were. No point in lamenting, now.

Everything they'd done, they'd done so involuntarily. It didn't matter. It had happened, and that was the end of it.

Although, as he watched Arthur getting dressed, back turned, with his chin held high as if refusing to even look at him, Francis felt something heavy and bitter against his tongue - something close to bile.

 

 

The two don't like each other. They never did, and won't ever.

It's just like that.

Francis knows that Arthur's feelings towards him are filled with nothing but disgust. He knows. He understands. Yes, it makes him angry. Makes him want to scream. Makes him turn red in the face and want to call him every single name that comes to hid mind. But, he understands.

They were never made to get along. Even during childhood. Even during sex.

It can't work out. It just can't.

 

The second time it happens, it's no accident.

They're not stupid. They both know it. This time, they were perfectly aware of what was going on - how close they'd gotten, the sudden tension in their muscles, the painful tug at Francis' bottom lip. They were perfectly aware of their choices.

And yet, it still happened.

It happened because Arthur had opened up to him. It's something that happens so rarely. It was late at night, in the dark, in a room filled by low whispers, and ushered confessions, and Arthur's jaw had clenched, and Francis has never been one for comforting, and then Arthur had kissed him, and then -

Then, the day after, he'd been handed his clothes, in a neat little pile.

Go home, he'd said. I don't want you here when he arrives. In that moment, Francis doesn't ask who's "he". He doesn't say anything.

His mouth is full of bile and he feels like he's going to puke. When he comes home, his stomach is still full. He didn't vomit, but he acts like he did anyway; turns on the shower, stays under it for a good hour, and brushes his teeth - three times.

He feels disgusted with himself.

He hates cheating, even when he isn't the one to blame. And he swears to himself that he won't let it happen a third time, because even he doesn't go that low.

 

It happens again, and Francis has no excuse. The third, fourth, fifth, and ninth times all happen in a row, and Francis doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand, because it's not even _good_ sex. 

Arthur is too quick. He isn't rough, but, he never takes his time - as if this were all some quick, rushed affair, in a dark, filthy alley - and that they could get caught at any moment. In any other situation, this kind of game would drive Francis home almost immediately. But, somehow, with Arthur, Francis doesn't feel like it's a game. And it leave him feeling cold, unsatisfied, and faintly upset with himself.

There are nights when he can't even get it up, and Arthur scoffs at him and his poor, soft prick, just like in Francis' worst nightmares, and he can feel his stomach churn.

Arthur says it's because of his age. That he's going to need a blue pill soon, like an old man. Francis doesn't answer; his mouth is filled with bitter liquid.

 

Their hatred used to be mutual.

There used to be somewhat of an equality between the two of them. If one of them bit, the other one scratched back, or vice-versa. It used to be an harmony, no instrument playing louder than the other. A soft, platonic kind of hatred.

Now, though, when they both meet with their common acquaintances, Arthur is the only one throwing spikes. He tells everyone about Francis' problems - his recent erectile dysfunction, the fact that he's losing his breath much faster, these days, or that the country's most famous lover is actually a real starfish in bed.

Francis feels angry. Humiliated. His friends' laugh is like spit in his face. He tries to get back at him, to talk about his rabbit-like pace, the weird faces he pulls out during sex, or even a few of the secrets he's been comfortable enough to share with him. See how he likes it.

But as soon as he opens his mouth, to try and at least get his honor back, Arthur gives him a glance. It's harsh, cold, and actually a bit frightening. Somehow, Arthur makes him feel like he _shouldn't_ do that. Like it wasn't _right_ _._

Francis shuts up. He doesn't understand why, but he shuts up.

Somehow, he doesn't want to disappoint Arthur - even though he's got no reason to respect him after what he's done.

Guess it's a one-way relationship, now.

When the night is over, they get out of the pub, and really do end up fucking in a dark alley.

Like dogs. Against the wall. Francis' face is pressed flush against the rough brick wall, scratching his skin, and Arthur is breathing in his ear about how tight he is, and - nothing, not even a flutter in his stomach, or a pulse in his cock - nothing.

He doesn't understand why he said yes.

He doesn't understand why Arthur fucks him if he hates him.

He doesn't understand why he keeps coming back for more.

Maybe, deep down, he's hoping that Arthur would somehow get attached to him. Enough not to let him go. Enough to stay with him even at the worst parts; the times, like now, when he doesn't know what to do for himself.

The thought burns scorching hot in his oesophagus, and he pukes in his mouth a little, just as Arthur pulls out.

 

It's no secret that Francis enjoys everything that includes love. Loving and being loved alike.

Some would call it pathetic - living only for those fleeting moments of attachment, all while knowing that it just can't last for more than a fling. Others would find it endearing. Francis thinks it's normal.

He's spent his whole life trying to be appealing to others. And there's nothing he likes more than the gentle touch of someone he appreciates and thinks dearly of.

He hasn't had anyone else since the whole business with Arthur started. He doesn't understand why - obviously, Arthur doesn't care much about fidelity, or even a monogamous relationship -, but he doesn't.

And he misses it.

There's a hole deep in his heart that Arthur has dug. He doesn't remember the last time he's taken pleasure in a sexual intercourse, other than the pleasure of satisfying someone.

As most people in great difficulties end up doing, he decides to go to a friend.

He kisses Antoño as soon as he opens the door, and he feels like he could cry from happiness. For a brief moment, here, on his best friend's couch, Francis feels loved, deeply, utterly, and it's such a strange sensation, after days of affection-less nights, that he feels like everything is in order again.

But, after a few minutes, Antoño pushes him away.

He says that it isn't right. That he can't do that. That he's not one for affairs, and that maybe Francis should go.

Francis doesn't understand. 

Antoño says that he can't possibly do that to Arthur. That it'd hurt him. And that Francis shouldn't go back to his old demons and ruin a perfectly good relationship - especially when he's been so lonely, recently.

There's a moment of silence before Francis starts gurgling - and ends up throwing up all of his stomach's content over the floor.

Suddenly, he can't feel anything but this burning sensation in his throat - bile. Bile, bile, bile. Licking away at his heart. And Francis doesn't understand how he let it all happen.

 

That night, he ends up at Arthur's house, because he doesn't feel like he can go anywhere else anymore. He's dirty, even though Antoño had proposed that he could shower there, in the house he knows by heart and could almost call home.

At Arthur's, Francis washes himself. He gets out of the bathroom with half an hour worth of water dripping off his skin. Arthur is waiting for him, naked, on his bed, and it's too much, and Francis drops to the floor, under Arthur's surprised, worried gaze. 

Francis tells him everything. How he doesn't get how it happened, how he feels like something has been taken from him, how he feels disgusted with himself, and how he doesn't understand how Arthur always seem to be here - why he's _even_ here.

He cries. He can't help it. Arthur doesn't come to comfort him. Instead, he seems to seriously consider it for a minute.

When he gets up, it's to bring Francis a glass of water.

-I'm here, he whispers, because you don't have anyone else.

Francis swallows back his bile.

He understands.

And now, all that's left for him to do is to drown.

**Author's Note:**

> Gee, well, that was that! I sincerely hope that you enjoyed my first fic in English, ahah. It isn't my mother tongue, so, please, feel free to point out any mistake! I absolutely love comments, and I'd like to improve for further works! Either way, thank you for reading!


End file.
